


Trinity Book II: Flames

by Sue Kelley (sknkodiak)



Series: Trinity [2]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sknkodiak/pseuds/Sue%20Kelley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second part of the Trinity trilogy. Takes up where Embers left off.</p><p>Buck and Ezra have targets painted on them. But all of Team Seven might fall before the forces of past, present and future are done with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Although this series is not a crossover by any means, various other people show up who might seem um...recognizable. This includes, but is not limited to, characters from Simon and Simon, Riptide, Thunder in Paradise, Houston Knights, High Mountain Rangers, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and, since the third book isn't finished yet, probably a lot more. Enjoy the "guest" stars!
> 
> Flames takes up exactly where Embers left off.

**Prologue**

Pirates Key was a small islet off the coast of Florida. Unlike some of the islands farther south, which boasted luxurious mansions of the rich and almost-famous, Pirates Key had only a dozen small homes, most of them lived in full-time by people who might easily be described as "eccentric" and had resided there for years.

Betty McClendon had been an artist of some local renown. Upon her death in the early '70s, her small, two-room shack on the north side of the Key had passed to her two grandsons in California. One of them had lived there for a while but he'd left to go into business in San Diego with his brother. It had been many years since either of the Simon boys--as the neighbors still referred to them--had been there for more than a week or so at a time.

Nonetheless, when in 1993 the property was sold, the inhabitants of the Key were upset. All the more so that the shack was torn down and a gleaming seventeen-room mock-Victorian mansion was built in its place.

But time passes and things change, even on Pirates Key. The new owner of the place, a man named Cletus Fowler, wasn't there much but when he ran into his neighbors, he was always pleasant and seemed to understand the reclusive nature of people on the Key. The big parties and wild tourists the inhabitants of Pirates Key had feared never came about.

By the time Fowler came to live full-time on the island, the inhabitants had gotten used to his house and his boat. It took them awhile longer, but they eventually got used to Fowler's stunning blonde wife and the various silent men who seemed to work for him. 

Fowler himself seemed to be retired although no one actually seemed to know what he was retired _from_. His short haircut and upright bearing led some to believe he was retired military although that would not account for his apparent wealth. Fowler himself vaguely mentioned he was semi-retired but occasionally "consulted" for old friends. Five or six times a year he would be gone for a week or two. His wife took the opportunity to head for shopping sprees in Miami or New York.

In time, the activities of Cletus Fowler and company just became another set of eccentricities in a community of eccentrics.

 

March 27

One small lamp burned on the desk, creating a pool of golden light. The man known to his neighbors as "Cletus Fowler" stood just outside of the reach of the light, staring out the window. It was the darkest time of night, the hours before dawn. A sliver of moonlight peeked out from heavy clouds and cast silver radiance on the ocean.

The phone rang.

After the third ring, Fowler walked across the room to the desk, reaching out and picking up the receiver. He didn't say anything. He knew whom the call was from, just as the caller knew who would answer.

"You were right."

Fowler closed his eyes. "He's still alive."

"Yeah. He's at University Medical Center. Been touch and go but they think he's gonna make it."

"Damn."

A pause.

"You want me to take care of him?" the caller inquired. "From what I could tell this afternoon, he doesn't have a guard on his door or anything. I could probably do it real easy."

"No."

"You sure?"

" _You_ don't do anything. He's my problem." Fowler dropped the phone back into the cradle.

He walked back to the window. The moon had gone back behind the clouds and there was nothing to be seen but inky blackness.

"Damn."

He'd failed. 

First time in his career.

He'd have to rectify that.

The man who had hired him might be in jail, but that didn't make any difference. He was a friend. An old friend.

More than that, he'd paid for a job. And the job wasn't done yet.

It wouldn't be done until an ATF agent named Buck Wilmington was dead.

Bolo Orlowski always finished his jobs.

 

**Denver:**

Arthur Curran sat alone in his library. A warm fire burned in the fireplace, warding off the early spring chill. Curran reached for the bottle of brandy on the table in front of him, pouring himself another drink. Sipping at the liquor, he slowly leafed through the pages of the photo album he held on his lap.

Most of the pictures were of his son. Steven. The early pages represented him as a baby, an infant, a toddler. Then his school years. It was the later pictures Curran concentrated on: those that showed his son as the handsome young man he had grown to be. Dark hair, blue eyes. He had inherited his mother's coloring and features; his keen intellect was all Curran. Steven Curran had been full of such promise. His father had looked forward to the day he could turn his empire over to his dearly loved son.

He closed the book, taking up instead a silver-framed photo from the table behind the leather-covered sofa. He studied the faces of his two nieces and his nephew. All the family he had left now. 

Nina. David. Monica.

He had entrusted to them the greatest task he could.

To them had fallen the right to avenge the death of their cousin.

He'd offered each of them ten million dollars and the chance to step away from the family business. It pleased him that none of them had taken him up on the idea. All three were committed to ridding the world of a murderer.

They'd already failed once. They didn't think he knew, but he did. He kept a closer eye on their activities than they could imagine.

He was disappointed in their first attempt. Well, not _their_ first attempt--from what he could determine Monica had come up with the idea all on her own--turning to Nina and David only when she needed help covering her tracks. It surprised Curran that Monica, of all of them, would have been the most aggressive. He couldn't help being pleased with her even though she could have brought down his whole empire. But Nina and David had leapt to assist her and all indications were that law enforcement was merrily following the false leads David and Nina had planted.

Now they were working together. Arthur Curran smiled. He had faith in his nieces. Of David, he was less sure. David was neither as intelligent as Monica nor as cunning as Nina. He wasn't subtle. That he could do the task entrusted to him Curran never doubted. But to do it and not leave a trail directly back to the Curran empire--that was more difficult. That would require wit and cunning and intelligence. In short, that would require all three of them.

Arthur Curran hoped they realized that now.

And, if by chance they should fail again, well, he had that covered too.

One way or the other, Special Agent Ezra Standish would die.

**~*~*~*~**

David Wyerly rolled over in the king-sized bed and kicked off the covers. He hated things touching him when he was trying to sleep. He used his arm to gently shove the woman next to him away. She mewled in her sleep, a sound of displeasure, but didn't wake. A few minutes later her even, soft breathing testified she'd drifted back into sound sleep. In her sleep she snuggled close to David again and again he pushed her away. Then he abruptly rose from the bed.

Nude, he padded across the small bedroom and exited into the short hallway, closing the door softly behind him. The last thing he wanted to do was wake up his companion. The sex had been good but her shrill voice gave him a headache. He wouldn't see her again after tonight.

The smell of the tiny living room assaulted him: cigarette smoke, her sweet perfume, and the Chinese food they'd had for dinner. Grimacing, he crossed the room to the sliding glass door, opening it and allowing the chill breeze into the room. The thin gauze curtains billowed like ghostly shadows. He stood looking over the city for a few minutes, inhaling the fresh air. The main reason he'd selected this apartment was for the view from the balcony. The apartment was tiny and almost ridiculously over-priced, but he wasn't here that much anyway. Most nights he stayed at his uncle's, usually only using the apartment when he had a date or when he just needed a break from the elegance and formality of his uncle's home.

Steven had been with him when he'd seen this place for the first time.

Turning abruptly from the window, he switched on the lamp behind the couch. Soft yellow light filled the room. He dropped into the butter-soft leather cushions and pushed aside the cartons and debris left on the coffee table from dinner, reaching for his cigarettes. "Damn," he said aloud. He'd left his gold lighter--a gift from Monica last Christmas, a surprisingly appropriate gift for his cousin--in the bedroom. He didn't want to go get it and risk waking up the woman--what _was_ her name? Started with an "L"...Linda maybe or Lisa. Her purse lay on its side under the coffee table and he rummaged amongst the contents until he found a packet of matches. Lighting his cigarette, he leaned back and let the comforting smoke fill his lungs.

Steven...

 

His cousin. But so much more.

Best friend. Partner. Brother in all but name.

Funny but he had few childhood memories of his own home. Most of his early memories were he and Steven, playing on the beach at his uncle's summer home in California. Christmas celebrations here in Denver, with the big house decorated and a huge tree and piles of presents. Only a few recollections of his own home, the small two-bedroom bungalow in Kansas City; of his parents, always fighting.

And then his mother had died. And his father had sent him and Nina away. "It will just be for a little while, dear," his aunt had comforted him. "Just until your father gets back on his feet.

He didn't even remember his father saying good-bye. 

That summer had been so much fun. They'd gone to Hawaii for a few weeks but he didn't remember much of it. Then back to the three-story house on the beach in California, where floor to ceiling windows were always open to let in the fresh air and light. Trips to Disneyland and Knott's Berry Farm and the Hollywood Wax Museum. He and Steven, with Uncle Arthur always encouraging them to have a good time. So different from his own father who was always tired and in a bad mood and worried about the bills.

He and Steven...

Nina was too young to be included in most of their games and Monica was a shy, withdrawn child, who even then preferred a good book to the company of her cousins. 

The summer ended and they went back to Denver. He was enrolled in Steven's school for the fall. New clothes and stuff.

He never heard from his father again...never really cared to hear from him again.

He didn't need him. He had Steven. And Steven had him. 

When had he realized what exactly Uncle Arthur's business was? Not the details but he thought he'd started suspecting early. Surely by his teens he'd known. Knew, too, that his life was planned already. Steven would follow in his father's footsteps and he would be at Steven's side.

The way it should be. The way it was. Through high school, college and beyond.

Until "Eric Stoddard" had come along. Charming, witty--a lot like Steven actually. They'd had a lot in common.

David's hands clenched into tight fists. No. Steven could never have anything in common with that...that bastard.

Eric Stoddard. True name, Ezra Standish. ATF agent. Fed.

The man who'd betrayed and murdered Steven.

Rage--blood red, swirling rage--blocked David's vision. That bastard. That *bastard*! The murdering SOB!

He would pay... _pay_ for Steven's death. He would _pay_ for taking away David's brother. He would _pay_ with his life, and David would be the one to exact revenge.

He would do it because he had to. For Steven. Uncle Arthur's money be damned. Maybe that was why Nina and Monica were involved. Maybe not. But _David_ would be the one to make Standish pay. Forget Nina and Monica and their involved schemes. He would take Standish somewhere and he would cut him, watch his blood trickle down to the dirty ground. Or maybe he'd shoot him--not to kill him--shoot him again and again until Standish was begging for it to stop, begging for death.

Or maybe burn him...

He didn't know how. But he was going to do it. Do Standish.

He had to.

For Steven.


	2. Part 1

Part 1  
Denver CO  
March 29

Chris Larabee stepped inside AD Travis' office. "You wanted to see me, Judge?"

It had been several years since Orrin Travis had left the Bench to accept an Assistant Director position with the ATF, but to Chris Larabee, as well as to most of the law-enforcement community in Denver, he'd always be "the Judge."

"Chris. Come in, have a seat."

Larabee obeyed, slipping into one of the two leather visitor chairs in front of the massive cherry wood desk.

Travis leaned back in his seat, studying the man in front of him. He shook his head. "Aren't you getting any sleep, Larabee?"

His characteristic half smile quickly crossed Chris' face, and just as quickly vanished. "Been a bad couple of weeks," he said evasively.

Travis nodded, raising his eyebrows. He knew how fiercely protective the leader of Team Seven was over his men, his family. And the last two weeks had been, to put it bluntly, hell. "I see that Mr. Standish has returned to duty. He's fully recovered, I trust?"

Chris nodded. There was no humor in the grin this time. "To hear him tell it there was nothing ever wrong with him. But his doctor released him. All the tests show no residual cardiac damage. Nathan's keeping an eye on him, just the same."

"That was a terrible business," Travis said, watching Larabee keenly.

The younger man's jaw clenched and familiar lines of tension creased his forehead and around his mouth. "Yep," he said curtly. "Ezra's in a meeting with the Assistant DA assigned to the case today. Berman, his name is."

"Ira Berman," Travis nodded. He still had a lot of friends in the DA's office and he'd been perturbed that a case of such magnitude--with federal charges in addition to local ones--had been assigned to such a relatively young ADA. "He's supposed to be quite brilliant." He paused, studying Larabee closely. "I stopped by the hospital to see Buck yesterday."

The ice-green eyes darkened briefly. Not for the first time Travis wondered how Chris Larabee could have any back molars left, he clenched his jaw so tightly. "He said you'd been by."

"What do the doctors say?"

Chris took a deep breath, let it out, took another. "It's going to be a long haul. He's stable enough now, but...a lot of things could still go wrong. And Buck..."

"Buck doesn't enjoy being a 'patient'?" 

"Patience isn't one of his virtues." Chris hesitated, and Travis got the idea he wanted to say more, but didn't. The silence stretched between them.

Finally Travis broke it. He handed Chris the manila folder he'd been studying when Chris had entered the office. "You have a new assignment," he said simply.

tbc


	3. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The set of spurs mentioned in this chapter came from a wonderful early Mag 7 story that I have, unfortunately, lost track of over the years. If anyone knows of it's location and/or author, I would appreciate the information!

Part 2

"Wow!" JD exclaimed. "Who're they from, Vin?"

Josiah stepped out of the conference room and lifted his eyebrows. _"Two_ bouquets of roses, Brother?"

"You make some lady very happy lately?" Nathan added, looking up from the pile of textbooks on his desk and grinning.

His cheeks as red as the roses in the larger arrangement, Vin carefully set the smaller vase--filled with daisies and cheerful yellow roses and frothy white baby's breath--on the corner of Ezra's desk. The crystal vase of long-stemmed crimson roses he gingerly placed on his own.

"Who they from?" JD repeated.

"Don't know yet," Vin admitted, reaching for the white envelope half hidden among the fragrant blooms. "Didn't know there were any flowers left in Denver, what with all those deliveries Bucklin's gettin' in the hospital."

Nathan pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "Whoever sent 'em must like you a lot, Vin. Two dozen red roses in this city? Hundred bucks, easy."

Vin opened the envelope, finding not the expected card but a stiff piece of expensive notepaper. He ran his finger over the embossed design at the top of the sheet--a wolf head silhouetted against a full moon--before glancing at the message. He sighed with relief when he realized the sender had printed her words, each letter meticulously formed in very black ink. Although he'd made great strides in overcoming his dyslexia in recent years--thanks to the support of his teammates and a tutor from one of the local universities--unfamiliar handwriting was still difficult for him. This printing was much easier to read.

 

_"Dear Agent Tanner--_

_The last of the Federal inspection teams left this morning and Riverside Pharmaceuticals has been given a clean bill of health._

_Please accept these flowers as a token of my thanks for your support and assistance during the last stressful weeks._

_Monica Hastings"_

 

There was a brief silence in the office after Vin finished reading. 

"Well, that's nice of her, I guess," JD said, with much less enthusiasm than he'd shown before. Ezra's almost-death because of an experimental drug stolen from Hastings's lab was still too fresh in his mind.

Nathan gestured to the flowers on Ezra's desk. "Wonder what that's about?"

"She feels pretty bad about what happened," Vin answered, folding the note back up and stuffing it back into the envelope. "Them FDA guys gave her a pretty hard time."

JD's breath escaped in a hiss. "Her lax security made it possible for Kevin Murine to get his hands on that drug," he snapped. "Ezra almost _died_ , Vin, or don't you remember that?"

"Not likely to forget it," Vin countered. "But, hell, JD, if it hadn't been that drug it would have been something else. Murine was under orders from Hoyt to kill Ezra."

"Brother Vin is right, JD," Josiah said calmly.

"Murine sure vanished into thin air," Nathan mused. "No leads and it's been over two weeks."

Vin winced, although he knew Nathan's words weren't meant as a slam to him. It galled him that with all of his experience tracking criminals he hadn't been able to find a trace of the man who had poisoned Ezra.

"Can't seem to find who blew up the loft, either," JD muttered, turning back to his computer. His three teammates exchanged glances.

"Well, we got the guy behind both attempts," Nathan finally said. He glanced at his watch and frowned. "Ezra's sure been gone a long time."

As if his name had conjured him up, Ezra Standish chose that moment to enter. He was impeccably dressed as always, but his normal poker face was absent. Ezra was pissed, and it showed.

"Didn't go well with Assistant DA Berman?" Vin questioned.

"I haven't _met_ with the estimable Mr. Berman yet," Ezra spit out, his soft Southern accent more noticeable than usual.

JD's eyes widened. "But your meeting was at nine!" Ezra, who was not a natural early-riser, had bitched about that all the day before. 

"What happened, Ezra? Oversleep and miss your appointment?" Nathan's voice was equal parts irritation and amusement. Standish's disdain for early risings was a frequent source of conflict between the two of them.

Ezra shot the other man an annoyed look. "I was punctual in my arrival at Mr. Berman's office," he proclaimed. _"He_ was forty-five minutes late with some story about his alarm failing to perform in an acceptable manner."

Much to his teammates' credit, not one of them cracked a smile. Still, Ezra seemed to know what they were thinking and he reluctantly grinned. "All right, well, _I_ of all people could understand that, but then he had to have a conference with his superiors, then he was meeting some personage somewhere else...on and on. I finally informed his secretary I was going to obtain some lunch and he could contact me on my cellular phone when he had time to meet with me." Ezra had managed to say all of that on one breath.

"Lunch?" Nathan questioned. "It's past three-thirty."

Ezra rolled his eyes. "I am so glad to see you are utilizing the timepiece I gave you for Christmas." He slammed his briefcase down on his desk, completely ignoring the flowers, and turned on his heel, heading toward the break room. 

"Our brother seems more agitated than the circumstances warrant," Josiah finally said, breaking the silence in the office.

"Yeah," Vin said thoughtfully. "He sure does." The lanky Texan pushed himself off the desk he'd been perched on and started to follow Ezra. Out of the corner of his eye he could see JD standing up, and he swung around to shake his head. "Give me a minute with him."

Ezra had the refrigerator door opened and was staring into it as if the secrets of the universe were contained on its chilly shelves. Far more interest than the contents warranted. 

"I'd give the pizza a miss," Vin said, leaning against the doorjamb. 

Ezra snorted, took out a bottle of water and then let the door close. "Since that particular item has been in there since before we all embarked on our ill-fated vacations, I concede your suggestion is of viable merit."

Vin raised his eyebrows as he slid into the seat across from Ezra. "Want t' talk about what's _really_ got you so riled up?"

Ezra managed a half-grin before his eyes fell to the table. He turned the water bottle around in his hands, making no move to drink. "I heard...a rather upsetting rumor while I was loitering at the DA's office.

Vin frowned. "A rumor? What kind of rumor?"

Ezra took a deep breath. "Some of the clerical people were sayin' that the DA isn't going to prosecute Marcus Hoyt on anything but the original charges brought against him."

It took Vin several seconds to realize what Ezra was saying and then his heart started pounding hard. "You mean the weapons charges?"

Ezra nodded.

"What about attempted murder?" Vin's voice rose. He knew the answer by the look on Ezra's face. "Damn! That can't be right!"

Ezra held up a hand. "It's just a rumor, Mr. Tanner."

"Can't be right," Vin insisted. "Hell, the Judge would know...he'd've said somethin' to Chris." 

Ezra raised his eyebrows. "Mr. Larabee has been in a somewhat surly mood the last few days," he pointed out. "Even for _him_."

Vin snorted. "Iff'n Chris thought there was a chance Hoyt would get off, he'd be a helluva lot more than 'surly'," he pointed out. 

"True," Ezra nodded. "We haven't had to duck any flying projectiles from his office."

"Hey, guys." JD stuck his head in the door. "Chris is back from seeing the Judge, wants all of us in the conference room pronto." The youngest member of the team vanished. Vin started to follow but Ezra caught his arm.

"Mr. Tanner...I think it would be best if we kept this information to ourselves right now. There is no need to agitate our teammates until we know for certain."

Vin nodded. "You got a point there, Ez. Come on, let's go see what Chris has got t' say."

~+~+~+~

"Listen up, ladies," Chris said, distributing manila folders to each of his team. "We've got a job, and not much time to prepare."

Ezra leafed through the neatly typed papers stapled inside the folder. "At the risk of sounding like a cretinous seventies t-shirt, where the hell is Hugo, Oklahoma?"

"Just a guess--Oklahoma?" JD grinned. Ezra rolled his eyes at him.

"It's a little place, right near the Texas line," Vin drawled. 

"Vin's right. The local law enforcement thought they were onto a big pot-growing operation. It's a rural area, easy to slip across the state line--great area for that kind of thing. They managed to infiltrate the lower echelon of the ring, and found out the proceeds from the marijuana are being used to buy weapons. They've got quite a cache already, and they have a meet scheduled with a dealer out of Shreveport in three days. The locals didn't think they could handle that and called for help. We're it."

Vin turned over another page and whistled. "The dealer is Brody Carter? Heard of him."

"Of _course_ you have," Ezra muttered, just loudly enough for Vin to hear.

Tanner ignored him. "Bad guy."

"Carter's been under constant surveillance for the last couple of months by the Louisiana authorities. They knew he was on to something big but couldn't get a handle on what." Chris grinned ferally. "They were more than happy to 'detain' Mr. Carter for awhile." He noticed the questioning looks. "As best we can tell, no one in the Hugo group has ever _met_ Carter--all their dealings have been through email and phone."

"God bless the Information Age," Josiah uttered.

"So, with Mr. Carter under wraps, we can send our own man in." Chris looked at Ezra, who nodded. It wasn't much time to prepare, but he'd done more with less.

"When do we leave?" Nathan asked, a worried frown crossing his face.

"Ezra and his 'bodyguard' will go to Shreveport--just in case the Hugo group has better information sources than we think. The rest of us will fly to Dallas tomorrow evening, pick up equipment and vehicles and drive on in to Hugo." He glanced at Nathan. "'Cept for you, Nate. You've got the paramedic recert coming up next week, you need to stay here."

Nathan looked both relieved and chagrined. "Chris, I can--" Larabee cut him off with a raised hand.

"Priorities, Nathan. You don't pass that test and we don't have a medic. Besides, I'd feel better if someone was here to keep an eye on Buck."

"That makes us two men short," Josiah pointed out.

Chris cleared his throat. "Well, actually, only one man short."

Six pairs of eyes fixed themselves on their leader. Chris went on, "Judge has temporarily assigned Bobby Fewell to Team Seven."

There was dead silence in the conference room.

"As Mr. Wilmington's replacement?" Ezra finally asked, although his tone made it more a statement than a question. 

JD bolted up from his seat. "Nobody can replace Buck!" Ezra winced.

"Temporary. That's all it is, temporary." Chris glared at Ezra, then glanced back at JD. "Sit down, JD...no one is replacing Buck." A small smile graced his face. "No one could, anyway, you're right about that. Judge just thinks Bobby would be a good extra pair of hands for a few months."

"Thought Bobby was goin' t' be movin' on to his permanent assignment soon?" Vin fiddled with his file of papers.

Chris shrugged. "From what the Judge said, he wanted Bobby to train with us, rather than Team Three, all along but it didn't work out. Thinks we might be able to give him some good pointers before he heads off to Houston. Talk of making a Remtef team out of there, next year or maybe the year after."

A cell phone started ringing. Everyone checked their phones and Ezra rolled his eyes when it proved to be his. "Probably the Assistant District Attorney requesting the pleasure of my company."

It was, and Ezra quickly left the office. The others went to their desks to start working on their various individual responsibilities. Chris delegated JD to locate Bobby Fewell and start briefing him, knowing the two young men were friends. Then Chris went into his private office, and--against his usual policy--shut the door behind him. He sank down in the chair behind his desk and rubbed away the incipient headache behind one eye.

After a few silent moments, he opened his eyes and studied the top of his desk, touching the antique spur he used as a paperweight. Buck had given him the object, during the first year of Team Seven's existence. He'd bought a pair of them in a nearby antique store and given one to Chris and one to Vin.

Chris still wasn't sure exactly what message Buck had been intending to communicate with the gift, but he treasured it. He picked it up now, holding it in his hand while his eyes lit on the framed picture of he and Buck, right after the successful conclusion of their first case as partners in Homicide.

He didn't see the two smiling young men in the picture. Instead his eyes were filled with a more recent, bitter memory...

_Alcohol-fueled rage rose up as reality crashed in on Larabee and the ache of being alone, being without the wife and child who'd given his life meaning, shredded the last bit of his heart. Unable to think, he grabbed something--one of Sarah's good knives from the wooden block--and rushed against the person who was left. He snatched Buck away from the stove, whirled him around and slammed him up against the wall, holding the sharp edge of the knife to his vulnerable throat. Buck dropped the phone he'd been holding between his shoulder and ear and grabbed Chris' hand, not trying to force the knife away but just keeping it in place. His face was swollen with ugly black bruises. "Chris--" ___

_"Shut up!" Chris roared. "What the fuck are you doing here?"_

_"I'm fixin' breakfast," Buck said calmly. "You wanna put that knife down now before the bacon burns?"_

_'SOB thinks I won't do it...' suddenly Buck's face vanished, replaced by the dark faceless unknown evil that had taken away all that made Chris' life good. He tightened his grip, paying no attention to the warm sticky blood that oozed over his hands. "You bastard! You killed my wife and son..."_

 

It had been two weeks since Chris woke in Buck's cubicle in ICU, shuddering from the grip of a nightmare that he quickly realized, to his horror, wasn't a nightmare at all but a memory long-buried under layers of grief and alcohol.

He'd held a knife to Buck's throat. Buck. His friend, his partner, the godfather of his son. The man who'd stayed beside Chris despite every provocation to turn away. The man who'd kept Chris alive during and safe even from himself.

He'd pushed that knife into Buck's throat until the flesh parted and warm sticky blood had coated his hands.

And Buck had never said anything. Chris still didn't know what had happened afterwards, how bad the injury was or how Buck had kept it from becoming public knowledge. With the exception of quietly confirming that, yes, it had happened, Buck had refused to discuss it with him. Chris was left only with the sickening memory.

How could Buck have ever forgiven him? That his friend had, Chris was sure...but he couldn't forgive himself. 

 

"Chris?"

Larabee looked up at Vin's voice. The tracker stood in the doorway. "There's somebody here to see you. Says his name is Natoli."

"Natoli?" Chris repeated. A smiled crossed his face. Standing up, he crossed the room to greet the man standing behind Vin. "Cap'n Nate! It's been a long time."

"Since you hijacked my intended replacement and dragooned him into the ATF?" Despite his words, the shorter man pulled Chris into a fierce hug. Over his shoulder, Chris caught the interested looks of his teammates. He turned away to introduce them. "Guys, this is Captain Natoli--Buck's old boss when he was on the Bomb Squad for the Denver PD." He pointed at his friends in turn. "Vin Tanner...Nathan Jackson... Josiah Sanchez." He pointed to JD last. "This is JD Dunne." 

"Now, Mr. Dunne I've met." Natoli shot the young man a sympathetic look. "Sorry about your home, son."

"You know about the bombing?" Chris questioned. "Then you know about Buck--"

"Yes. Actually, that's why I'm here." He met Chris' eyes. "If I could have a few moments of your time...in private, Christopher?"

Chris smile vanished as he took in the other man's expression. He nodded. "Come on into my office."

 

"I've been out of state on family business--my grandson is very ill," Natoli explained as he sat down in the chair in front of Chris' desk. He sighed in relief. "Not as young as I used to be," he said. He hefted the briefcase he carried into the chair next to him and opened it, pulling out a stack of files. "Got home early yesterday and got Buck's message. Had to call in a bunch of favors but I think I got most of what he needed."

"Buck's message?" Chris repeated.

Thumbing through the files, Natoli missed the look on Chris' face. "Bolo Orlowski. After all these years." He gave a humorless laugh. "That's one hombre I'd be glad to see dead."

Chris heard that name, Bolo Orlowski, and his mind flashed back to Buck's hospital room and a semi-conscious Buck, on a respirator, trying desperately to communicate something. He'd spelled out "Bolo", leaving his friends to believe legendary bomber Bolo Orlowski had planted the bomb in Buck's apartment. But, since then, Buck had staunchly denied knowing why he'd incriminated Orlowski.

Chris felt cold all over as he numbly accepted the stack of files Natoli offered him. "Had to come downtown to get the last of them. Chris, I wanted to take them to Buck myself but I've got to leave." He glanced at his watch and made a face. "Now, actually. Have to catch a plane in two hours and you know how the airport is. You tell Buck I'll be back in town next week, if I can do anything to help on this case." The retired arson cop didn't seem to realize Chris wasn't responding to him at all. "And Chris, forget what I said about you hijacking Buck to the ATF. He belongs beside you. Always did, always will. Hell, the only reason he came over to my squad anyway was to keep working on the case."

Chris looked up. "What case?"

"The murder of your family--" Natoli trailed off. He shook his head. "Shit. You didn't know? I just assumed Buck would have told you a long time ago."

Chris felt as if he was outside his body, watching as he slowly shook his head. "No. No, he never told me. But that's all right. I should have guessed."

"Damn..." Natoli looked at his watch again. "Chris...I've got to go." He stood up, looking regretfully at the other man. "I wish I could stay...if Buck's got a lead on Bolo after all this time, I'd like to help. I've still got lots of contacts, even if I am retired." He closed his briefcase. "You tell Buck to get better fast, and I'll be in touch as soon as I get back."

After Natoli left, Chris sank back down in his chair, numb, his ears ringing with what he'd just heard. _'Damn. I should have known...'_ He absently leafed through the files. A name leapt out at him and he froze, then opened the file and read the whole page, his numbness fleeing before the anger pounding through his veins.

~+~+~+~

"Son of a bitch!"

Four heads popped up as Chris' roar resounded through the office. Vin half rose in his seat, but before he could stand up the door to Larabee's office flew open with such force it smashed into the wall and stuck there. Larabee stalked out, jaw set, eyes flashing ice green fire, a pile of folders in his arms. 

"Chris?" JD started, eyes wide.

Chris ignored him, striding past the occupied desks like a tank rampaging through a village. His men knew better than to get in his way.

"Where are you going?" Josiah dared to ask.

Chris flung open the door to the hallway. "Hospital," he ground out. The door slammed behind him.

Left behind, the four members of Team Seven stared at each other in shock.

tbc

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I guess it's time for a little explanation. Something along the lines of why did it take me ten plus years to finish this story.
> 
> Flames was almost finished when on July 14, 2002, my best friend (and chief beta) Wendy and I were involved in a car crash. I ended up--ironically enough--with a lot of the same injuries I gave Buck in Embers. I was in rehab for over a year learning to walk again. What was worse, to me, as a speech pathologist, was I had "specific word finding" problems--the words just wouldn't come.
> 
> It was probably six months late when I could sit down in front of the computer and it wasn't painful. So I started working on Flames then, only to discover I had no ability to write it. I didn't remember it. I had notes on how it was to end, but it was like someone else had written them.
> 
> OK jump ahead until July of 2012, the ten year anniversery of the accident. Not exactly on that day, but close to it, all the memories of the accident and the year before it came rushing back. (Won't go into the major panic attack that caused!) After that I discovered I could read this story again, and I really remembered how to finish it. And thanks to Charlotte, who had archived it at another website, I had it to finish, since my version had long since been eaten by a dying computer. 
> 
> So that's the story. Many thanks to all those through the year who have asked about this story and still have an interest in it. My apologies for the wait!


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